God I am so tempted to just trying to end it tonight. I hate the fact that I have to do this all over again tomorrow. What the **** is this joke of a life. What a ****ing joke. A sick joke told by a vile idiot. I can't do this. I can't do ****ing anything. Too numb and cowardly to even fumble for an end.
Hope mixed with Hell is the definition of suffering. Hell is defined by suffering, not the other way around. The **** are you talking about? Idiot. The best have already left us. There never were any angels, just ****ups and lucky ****ers who left early. I don't pity the suicide. There are no do-overs, just this one life, a puerile play, a tragicomedy lacking any empathy. God is a real ****ing piece of work, that's for sure.
My pillow is sandpaper that scrapes me through into the next parodical sham of a day. There is only pain, then sweetness, then further pain, then waning sweetness, burgeoning pain, until it is only the memory of joy that tortures the waking hours, and confusion that peppers the hours of horrid dream.